And the piano screams
by Insert Letters Here
Summary: "America- oh, America, that nation, that bloody idiot- stood before him. D minor. A musket. A bayonet. People surrounded him. Not his people, never his people. The rebels. Fingers flew up and down the piano keys. Feverishly. Manically. A clear shot. Green eyes are open. The only sound is silenced."


**Warning: Depression, angst, thoughts of suicide. Oh, and a headcanon or two.**

**And The Piano Screams**

A note rang out. It was a natural.

Another. Sharp.

A chord, now.

Two.

Arthur's fingers glided- no, pounded- their way up and down the ivory keys. Thumb and pinkie stretching to play a difficult chord.

Slam.

The pressure his fingers created and afflicted on the piano was addictive. He couldn't stop. And he didn't want to stop. It was his favorite piece- one he learned and mastered centuries ago, back when those brilliant composers were all the rage.

He played a trill.

It's been so long since he's been in charge. Since he was _powerful._ It was back before-

Green eyes met blue-

He played in forte.

England was drenched in rain.

And a B flat.

America- oh, America, that nation, that bloody _idiot_- stood before him.

D minor.

A musket. A bayonet. People surrounded him. Not his people, never his people. The _rebels._

Fingers flew up and down the piano keys. Feverishly. Manically.

A clear shot.

Green eyes are open. The only sound is silenced.

Blood. Everywhere. Death. Everywhere. Bodies- indistinguishable, mangled, bloodied, raw. Burned to the bones, butchered, lifeless. And then Arthur laughs and laughs and laughs in his bloodied red coat that's now stained black and he knows. There is no honor in death. There is only that. Death. A gaping black hole that is ready to just swallow and swallow and gobble up anything and everything that is living and it's stupid that people would be so willing to fight for their country in wars, only to be inhaled into this... Monster. Death.

Anything and everything that loses. Just like England.

But England is not dead. He isn't dead. He knows that. Arthur knows he didn't die. England is still alive. He's still alive and well and nobody can get rid of him because he's the bloody _British Empire and you better remember that-_

But he was broken.

He was destroyed.

The great British empire- the very one that used to sail the seas, the one that conquered uncountable nations, had one third of the world in his power, the one that beat the bloody frog. The one that fought battle after battle and won and won and had basked in his victory for so many times that it just felt right and-

But he broke.

And by what means, exactly?

Alfred got his freedom. Leaving England empty. Shattered. Broken.

That was too simple.

Or was it?

_No._

The piano lid slammed down.

And Arthur manages to keep himself steady, keep himself alive. Tells himself that one day his former colony will come crawling back, begging, and pleading him to forgive him for his actions. The little boy he once knew will come back to him-

But no.

He doesn't.

And the next thing he knew- it was World War II. More bodies, bombed to death, blood splattered on pavements. Soldiers from the army, returning not alive but dead, not with a smile, but a pale, dead face. Lifeless.

And then England had a debt. A debt to _America. _His former charge, his former colony. His Ally, yet his enemy. The world superpower. Maybe America came to save him; maybe he had good, _great_ intentions. _But it hurt so badly._

England. Once on the throne at the top of the world. Reduced to just a nation that is in the Special Relationship with _America_. That name- that goddamn name that is always there, everywhere, anywhere wherever he goes that name will _always _be there. And maybe he's supposed to just hate America. Despise him. Hate the boy that left him in trade for freedom and independence, hate him for taking away his title as the world superpower, hate him for being so goddamn fucking happy all the time.

But he doesn't.

And that scares him- it terrified England. He's supposed to hate America. He has reasons. Plenty of good reasons to just hate him, to feel like knocking him off of his pedestal, to feel like stepping on his head, kick him, beat him, and leave him a bloodied mess like he had left England centuries ago.

But he loves him.

He loves the bloody git, and comes with an eye roll or two when he invites England for parties every 4th of July.

He loves the idiot that eats McDonalds every fucking second.

He loves America. He fucking loves America.

But he knows, he just knows, that America doesn't love him. He never did. He never will.

And the image of a smiling boy holding his hand, face free from spectacles, from Texas, looking up to him like he was the world, the best, the greatest.

It broke him.

Maybe it was partly his fault, too. He hides behind snarky, sarcastic comments. Keeps the attitude of a teenage girl on her period, and dresses like an old man, despite his punkish qualities in the recent past. But he really couldn't help it.

When a nation has been broken, that nation would hide behind a façade. Hide the fear and depression and the utter destruction, humiliation, behind this one face. And this was England's.

Because no one knows what England does behind closed doors, inside his home. No one knows how often England plays and vents the piano. No one knows how he wastes away, drinking bottles and bottles of gin, ale, wine, and whatever else. No one knows how he buries himself in his work, wakes up in his work, and sleeps in his work.

Nobody fucking knows.

Because nobody fucking cares.

And maybe England doesn't deserve all this- or maybe he does. Maybe this was just the storm before the calm- no, that doesn't sound correct. Maybe this was his karma. Maybe it was a way for him to be bitch slapped. After all, he had to kill and kill, slaughter people of every race and kind and structure and religion to get to the top of the bloody, gory, pyramid.

Maybe after this period of time England will rise to the top again. Maybe he will. Maybe he won't.

He sees America all the time. More so than he sees himself, sometimes. He avoids mirrors and reflections, and he avoids himself, because he would see how such a mighty person with a rueful smirk that was planted on his face became him. This person- this thing- that walks in his place.

Hollow, empty, lifeless. Alive just for the sake of existing.

And maybe that line was for Prussia to say, not for England. But it was true.

Everyone was shadowed by the golden boy, by the world superpower. America.

Arthur doesn't deserve this.

He doesn't deserve being stepped on, throttled down, beat up and up and up until he manages to beat people, slash them down, kill. That glory- he was on top of the world. Then he fell. Just like that. His throne yanked away from underneath him, America replacing him.

Yes, he doesn't deserve this. At least, Arthur doesn't. England… Well.

Huh, he was in his bedroom. Why was he wearing his best suit? Wasn't he in slacks and a sweater vest a moment ago?

A tear escaped his left eye.

And what made it worse?

America hadn't laughed at him. Hadn't mocked him, hadn't taunted him. Hadn't waved the crown of thorns in front of his face. America hadn't kicked him down farther and farther into the depths of that humiliation and sadness and depression and ohhowmanytimeshashejustthoughtofsuici-

_No._

He couldn't afford this.

Couldn't afford to think like this.

Arthur is a gentleman. He believes that. He doesn't loath on others- except for the frog, but that was a different case- he doesn't loath himself. He doesn't loath _life. _He dislikes it sometimes, _most _times, but he does not _hate _it. Arthur could never hate such a blessing; he could never not love his existence.

But that's what he thinks. What he forces himself to thinks. It's something that more than half of the nations still living in the present day; marred and bruised and broken and shattered and utterly, shamefully, horrible, force themselves to think. Because it's simply the only way. The only way to stay alive, for their country, for their people, for _themselves. _

And Alfred doesn't fucking get it.

In fact, he flaunts it all. He flaunts his liveliness, his happiness, his complete obliviousness that the nations are annoyed of. Just _because_.

Just because…

Just because they don't have it anymore.

Arthur yearns for that innocence, for that obliviousness that only America seemed to possess. So does China, so does France. So does Japan, Greece, and even the _Italies. _

Because they don't have it anymore.

After years and years of war and bloodshed and terror and hate. Even Italy was hiding. Hiding behind his smiles, hiding behind the cheerful tone in his voice, hiding in the facade that only crumbles behind closed doors.

And how does England know this?

Because he feels it every single fucking day.

And every single day he keeps existing and he's tired of it, oh god, he just feels like crumpling his life like it was paper and throw it inside the nearest trash bin and-

But no.

He has to keep staying alive.

Trembling fingers reached up to put on his seat belt. Oh, he was in his car. When did he get out?

_Never._

_You're never going to get out of your prison. The prison that you were locked into right after you were dethroned, right after you started feeling that depression, right after you wanted to d-_

He was driving now. His left hand brushing damp locks aside. Oh, he was sweating. When did he start sweating?

And he could feel the heat of the fire and coal and embers that burned him when he fell and fell and fell after the fall of his great empire. He could feel the pain and his masochistic tendencies made him endure it, think he deserved it, and dare he say, _loved it_. He could hea_r_ the screams and the cries and sobs and _every single fucking thing was stuck in his head and the whips the chains the flesh and blood and tears the cries of pain and pleads from his people and everysinglefuckingthingwasbeingplayedoverandoveran dstopstopstopstopsto-_

He took a sharp turn. Left.

But… But that was the way up to the cliffs? Wasn't it? He doesn't know. He laughed.

Because nobody knows what happens when a nation actually _falls._

Everyone thinks it's still all rainbows and unicorns and sunshine and fucking cupcakes with just a bruise here and there, but it isn't. Ask France, ask China, ask England. They were thrust deep into the hands of that bitch Karma, and they were manhandled and beaten and bloodied and bruised until they were unrecognizable.

And people thought- oh, it's fine, the economy will grow steadier by the years, there's absolutely nothing to worry about.

And yes that's true, but not the nations. The nations that have fallen, the nations that felt the pain of losing their throne and their heads hitting onto the cold ground of _their hell_ will tell you exactly what happens.

Nobody gets away. Nobody can escape that depression of falling. Physically or mentally.

Because falling meant they had went through a war- a war that has destroyed them and their _people, _their _land. _A war or a depression or an economic downfall or _whateverthefuckhecouldn'tcareless. _And England still remembered 1066, when stupid France came and conquered him, his _land, _his people. Killed his ruler, replaced them. He'd taken stupid William the Conqueror and made England bow down to him. He felt weak and useless and like he was just going to _fade _any second.

And this was how he felt after his fall.

That thousand storey fall.

It was faster than he had expected.

It was hilarious.

And England felt that delightful breeze again, and the faint scent of rain. Oh, had it been raining now? And… was he out of his car?

And then his feet brought him closer and closer towards the breeze and he kept going-

_Left and right and left and right and left and right and left and right-_

He stops.

Looks down.

Oh.

He was on the edge of the cliff.

And then England looks up to the skies, twinkling with stars but not as many as there were in the past where things were so much simpler, so much better, and he was on top of the world again and-

No.

He isn't the superpower anymore. He isn't the Great British Empire. He isn't a pirate, he isn't a gentleman, he isn't a soldier, he isn't a King, he _isn'tanything worth living. _And maybe.

Maybe.

Maybe he deserves to die.

What? That's absurd.

_It's true. You deserve to die._

But how? Why?

_Just jump. _

And the voice of reason comes and pleads and England tries to push it away and he lifts his foot- his left foot and then-

_You can't, you idiot._

No. I can.

_You can't._

Why?

Nobody answers him.

His left foot drops back to the earth.

And England just stands there, feet rooted to the ground, head tilted up towards the sky. Breeze combing through his hair- _like an invisible hand._ And England feels his lips twitch up into a smile, small but nevertheless, a smile, and then he closes his eyes and sighs and-

The air around him changes and he hears a car pull over and then footsteps and he feels hands tugging him backwards and he flails and-

"_Angleterre,_" Oh great, it was the bloody Frog-

"What do you think you're doing, _mon ami_?" And there comes the French again and why was he even _here in England, in London?_ And Arthur doesn't form an answer, he doesn't even _try _because what use would it be? He didn't even _know what he was doing_ himself…

And…

And…

Oh, goodness. England's finally lost it.

Then France just sighs and says some stupid French words. Then France calls someone- who is Matthew, again? And then that boy with the polar bear gets out of the bloody Frog's car and he _looks so much like Alfred that it hurts-_

And Arthur remembers when he burned down that white house.

He grins to himself.

The fire is alive and heat was smoldering and he and his troops and some people from that place that started with 'Can'…

And he loved that so. He loved that feeling of _vengeance._ He loved bringing pain to his former colony, he loved hurting him-

And he'd do whatever it takes.

_No._

And then there was the voice of reason again- oh goodness, how England hated that so.

_You can't do it. You won't do it, because you lo-_

No, no I don't. I hate him so much that I want to just punch him in the face and slaughter his people and-

_You love him._

I hate him.

It is silent once again.

And Francis is driving away now and England is in the car- where is he going? And Matthew was quiet and he still looked like Alfred and England just stares and stares and-

Matthew turns around.

His eyes are so blue.

Then Arthur doesn't know what slips out of his mouth and he hears someone say something-

"Are you America?"

And it sounds just like his own voice with that British accent and he knows it's him but why did he say it and-

"No, I'm Canada."

And his anger dissipated and he remembers that young colony that was always beside America and then he remembers how he used to _smile_ and he just smiled and he received a small smile back. And maybe he can stay alive. And maybe he can keep himself together. And maybe he doesn't want to die. And maybe with France and with Canada and with Greece, Japan and all those older nations he can strive on.

For the sake of his people.

For the sake of just existing.

For the sake of his fellow nations.

But not for America.

And that's what the island nation tells himself as France drove away and as Canada talked to him politely and as the jumbled thoughts drew away from his mind.

And now… Now he needs to learn to live again.

**End**

* * *

**Some of you guys must be wondering how exactly a nation can kill themselves. Well, I have a headcanon that countries actually ****_can _****kill themselves, and they would be replaced by new personalities. Basically, they commit suicide, and either someone else pops up as the new personification, or the country would cease to exist. **

**Yerp.**


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